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The Numidiad: Part I
Second Era Construction 2E296, Midyear… 18 19. Hall of the Colossus, outside Rimmen. It’s finished. Finally, we finished it. The Dunmer promised us a weapon as their bargain for the Armistice, but they didn’t tell us we had to put it together ourselves. Well, we did. All it needs now is a Heart. Tiber Septim himself arrived today, along with his battlemage and general, and tomorrow at dawn they begin the ceremony to wake it. Whatever it is. It’s just a statue, at the moment. A colossal, brass statue of a man. It has parts to move. We had to fit gears and pipes together endlessly. Whatever this does, I don’t know if we should be proud or ashamed. If you are reading this, know that we intended only the best. We intended to forge peace on the anvil of the world, with the hammer of the Numidium. Third Era Activation 3E1. Midyear, I hope. Hall of the Colossus, I fear. Numidium awoke yesterday. We had to construct massive gantries to hold it as we built it; they used to be called the Halls of the Colossus. Now they will only be known as the Halls of the Folly, if the gods be kind. I fear that we have mishandled power too great for any mortal. The Dwemer built this monstrosity, and the price they paid was their extinction. Now we have awoken it, and what shall be extolled of us for it? The moment of its awakening was truly breathtaking. Tiber Septim, Zurin Arctus, and a great shaggy Nord whose name we never knew, stood on a platform in front of its chest. They held an object. There was a blinding flash of light, a deafening thunderclap, and it was awake. It didn’t move or change, but we knew. Gods help us, it was awake. Tiber stood triumphant in front of it. A harsh light shines through a gaping hole in Zurin’s chest before his body topples to the sand below, and a cloud of ash hangs in the air. Then we noticed what else happened. Clouds flashed across the sky around us, but on the far horizon we could see nothing wrong. Men grew old, or young, around us. Sometimes they flashed to skeletons and collapsed, and some shrunk to infants and vanished. Some had the changed years reverse. Some had their bodies pulled in different directions by the eddies of time. Fleeing across the sand took me to my youth and my old age and back, and my left half is that of a man twenty years my elder. I scribe this frantically, not trusting the sands any further. My papers, new-bought last month, crack with age. My ink dries in the pen. It moved. By all the gods, the monster moved. It’s left the gantry. I don’t know where Tiber Septim is, but it’s headed for us. Mother have mercy. Morrowind 3E1, Vvardenfell We call this the third era, now. The folly of the Cyrodiils marks a change for us all. We don’t know where the Cyrodiils found the Brass Walker, but rumor has it that our own Tribunal gave it to them. Surely this is barest falsehood. No God of ours would do this to the world, would they? There is no time for doubts. Not that there is time for anything, or time, anymore. We hear that the Halls of the Colossus have the worst of it, but even here we feel the ripples of Septim’s Folly. Time rushes forward, then backward, and… we don’t know how to describe it. I’ve seen mer become thrice themselves, each following different paths of fate, then recombine in a catastrophic event using details from all three. My colleague married three different womer three different times, and now his wife is a grotesque mash up of them all. Was. She died immediately. There’s no point in recounting this. Numidium came for us. A Numidium, anyway. We hear that there is fighting all across Tamriel. Numidium is not with us constantly; perhaps it roams the continent. How it moves so quickly we do not know. Perhaps it too split as did my colleague. Perhaps it is everywhere. Perhaps it alone knows the one path through the churned stream of Time to wander as it pleases incomprehensible to us strewn like flotsam in a flood. The mainland is lost. We pulled back to Vvardenfell, to the Ghostfence. There is an enemy inside, and they have blocked our Gods from their font of power. We must reclaim it. We face the scourge of Corprus, and monsters beyond our conception, but we must press on. There is no hope beyond the fire and ash of the Mountain. Skyrim 3E… How do we define a year anymore? The seasons are meaningless. They obey neither order nor regularity. Not even the sun can be relied upon for constancy. The only solidity left in the world is the ice. Tiber Septim began as just one of us. He came from the west, fought with us, drank with us. Nobody thought him any different until the thunder spoke and called him to the mountain, to Hrothgar. People seek out the Greybeards regularly, but to have them some summon a man… unheard of, for ages. Skyrim has always stood by her brothers to the south, and Tiber was no exception to this. When he moved south to build his empire, he did so with us at his back. Not all of us, at first, but Nords are never of a mind. This golem, though, he’s gone too far. I’m loyal to him, but I’m loyal more to my men and my home. This thing he has done… it is only destruction. There is no honor in fighting with metal that has no man wielding it. The others have all turned against us now, and we cannot stand for a man who employs so easily a soulless machine crafted by soulless elves. Slept: //// //// //// //// // Karl and Jormund wanted to head home to Karthwasten soon. I’m glad they stayed with us. We came across a family from the west. The Reach is a bloodbath. High Rock turned against us because of the Golem, and struck at our west. Some of the Reach natives sided with them and are calling themselves the Forsworn. Haafingar is sending warbands south to try and quell the worst of it, but the fighting is still going strong. We’re headed to Whiterun now. Hopefully someone there will know what we should do. High Rock Sixth Campaign, outside Rorikstead The bloody Nords and their treacherous cousins the Cyrodiils unleashed hell on the world, and nobody else strikes against them. This is my sixth tour into Nordic territory, and each time we find less and less resistance to us. The hillfolk natives are increasingly violent, and have cycled through perhaps three or four governments since we invaded. They are at times helpful to us solely because we continue to strike into Skyrim, and at other times close their gates to us or even attack outright because we are not them. I do not expect them to last, but they are a useful tool to harry the province. We received word today that Numidium has turned its gaze upon the Iliac. Wayrest has been sacked, as have Alcaire County and, praise be the gods, that barbarian cesspit Orsinium. Our new orders are to pull back west, herding all the hillfolk we can into Markarth, and emptying the mines. The high mages believe that we may be able to use the silver to construct a defense against the Walking Brass. All I care about, though, is that we strip the Nords of wealth and bring it home with us. We’ll need it. Markarth We’ve been here for a month now, working the hillfolk nigh-continuously. The mines seem to never run low, and just as a vein of silver is depleted, rock shifts and another is exposed. Reports from Balfiera tell us that the island overflows with silver from the mines of this region, both Breton and seized Nordic. The mages are making progress on their project, but Tiber’s monster has for the time turned elsewhere. I pray that we will be ready when it returns. Elsweyr Intelligence Reports: Elsweyr The Khajiiti caravans all vanished soon after the Rimmen Event. Our agents in the northern towns gathered rumors these were shouted, not whispered, that the Event has given new significance to the moons, which play integral roles in Khajiiti culture. As we have seen, although seasons and years pass irregularly on the surface, the moons have remained constant in their cycles, as far as we can tell. How this affects the Khajiit is yet to be determined. Torval Station reports that massive numbers of Khajiit have flocked to the city, and more arrive every day. Hostility to foreigners grows and grows with their apprehension. They will not speak of it where we can hear, but it is apparent that their Mane has issued a proclamation demanding that all of Elsweyr’s population migrate south. Perhaps they hope that in the Pelletine jungles, they will be beyond Numidium’s reach. Torval Station: We were chased out of Torval today with the last of the other non-natives seeking shelter or livelihood to the south. We plan to travel east and then sail north to Leyawiin for our return. Our quarter of the city is empty, and the only exit is to the open road. I have decided that further investigation into the Khajiit plans would be fruitless and end only in our deaths. This is the first time we have seen quiet or stillness since arrival in the city, and it is indeed eerie. The only movements are small cloth strips tacked to doors. I have included one below: "Elsweyr is lost. Seek Haven elsewhere." Category:The Numidiad Category:Myrrlyn